Undercover in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I parked the dwarfed Miata near the front steps and stared up at the building.

  “How many B movies did you say she made?”

  “At least fifty in the U.S. Maybe more overseas. I heard she even had a short stint as a German pop star in the late nineties.”

  And here I thought I knew everything there was to know about my favorite TV stars.

  “So…” Jasmine said, her eyes darting to the imposing front door. “You really think Margo might have done it? Killed two women?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Jasmine’s throat bobbed up and down, a little of that pasty look returning to her cheeks. “Know what? Maybe I’ll just wait in the car.”

  “Suit yourself.” I opened the door and hopped out, my heels crunching on the white gravel leading up to the steps. I rang the bell and heard elegant chimes echo throughout the home. Two beats later the door was opened by a young Asian woman in a gray uniform.

  “Hi, I’m Maddie Springer?” I said. Only it sounded more like a question. I’ll admit, growing up around Beverly Hills, I wasn’t easily intimidated by wealth. But being faced with a real, live uniformed maid right of out a Merchant Ivory film was something I wasn’t accustomed to. I nervously tugged at my hooker outfit.

  The woman was obviously a pro, and if she wondered why a woman in spandex and clashing pumps, driving a Miata that looked like it belonged to Bonnie and Clyde, was standing on her employer’s doorstep, she didn’t show it. Instead, she did a slight nod of her head and motioned for me to come in. “Please follow me, ” she said in softly accented English.

  I did, as she led the way down a narrow hallway to her right. I was glad she had her back to me as we walked, because I was pretty sure I was staring with an intensity that bordered on rude as I took in Margo’s decor.

  It was like I had walked into a Hollywood museum. Every square inch of wall space was occupied by large, framed movie posters, most of which had either the words sorority or slasher or both in the title. I recognized a younger version of Margo, minus the overzealous face-lift, gracing half of them. Most were films I didn’t recognize; some were even done in foreign languages—Japanese, German, Spanish.

  As the maid led me into a large room at the back of the house, the feeling of being in a showplace increased when I noticed that everything was encased in plastic. And I mean everything. The sofas were wrapped in the kind of covering seen on my Irish Catholic grandmother’s virgin living room set she purchased at Sears in 1957. Plastic display cases took up every available surface, displaying things like vases, jewelry, teacups, and even a stuffed ferret. Along a black-lacquer mantel sat a collection of trophies—one of which I picked out as a Golden Globe. I took a step closer. Best Supporting Actress in a Drama, 1997. Ouch. Been a while since Margo had appeared on the big screen.

  “Miss Margo will be right with you, ” the woman told me, then disappeared back the way she had come.

  I took the opportunity to browse the museum. Of course, the first stop was the ferret. (What can I say? I’m curious like that.) A brass nameplate on the case said: MR. BOBO, FROM SORORITY STRANGLER 7. I looked at Mr. Bobo, permanently suspended in midleap inside his plastic tomb. Creepy.

  I moved on to the next case, which held a huge pair of ruby-colored earrings. The case read: WORN BY MAGDALENA IN THE SLASHER COED RETURNS. The rest of the cases were similarly marked, all holding memorabilia, it seemed, from Margo’s various film efforts. I paused next to a case from The Campus Killer, which held a pair of black silk pumps embroidered with little emerald butterflies down the sides.

  “Gorgeous, aren’t they?”

  I snapped my head up to see that Margo had entered the room.

  “I wore those as Eleanor Swift, sophomore at UCLA and the Campus Killer’s third victim.”

  I nodded. “They’re beautiful.” Personally, I thought it was a shame they were stuck behind plastic. Shoes like those deserved to be worn. Fleetingly, I wondered what size they were…

  “My death scene in that one was superbly written. The killer slit me across the throat right here.” She made a line from ear to ear with her forefinger. “God, I was cleaning fake dye out of my hair for a week, there was so much blood. Did you see that one?” Margo asked

  I shook my head. “No, sorry. I must have missed it.”

  Margo shrugged. “Oh, well, it was a straight-to-video. Great reviews in Sweden, though. Please sit, ” she said, indicating a low love seat.

  I did, my spandex dress slipping awkwardly on the plastic surface.

  Margo sat opposite me. She was dressed in a maroon skirt, black blouse, and sheer black stockings that swooshed together as she crossed one leg over the other. Though I was pleased to see a pair of classic black pumps on her feet and not the rubber Crocs.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” she asked. She pulled a slim silver cigarette case from a drawer beside her and flipped it open.

  “Yes, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the show.”

  “Sure.” She offered the case to me. I shook my head and she shrugged again, pulling out a long, slim clove cigarette. “What do you want to know?”

  “I suppose you saw Mia’s press conference this morning?”

  Margo snorted. “Who didn’t? That woman is the biggest media whore I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been around, ” she added, gesturing to her treasure trove of B-movie credits. “I know whores.”

  “I take it you’re not that fond of Mia?”

  “Hell, no.” Margo punctuated this by stabbing the unlit cigarette in my direction. “She’s a first-rate bitch, that woman.”

  “Because of the comment she made about your age the other day?”

  Margo gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, honey, we go back way farther than that.”

  “How far?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “I was the one who first discovered her.”

  “Oh?”

  Margo nodded. “She was doing this terrible Actor’s Playhouse production in North Hollywood. I was there with my second husband, Randolph Amsted, the director of Dorm Demons?” She paused, looking expectantly at me, as if I should know him.

  I nodded, playing along.

  “Anyway, the play was awful, but Mia…I could tell she had something. She was driven. She made the audience pay attention to her. I convinced Randolph to put her in his next picture. You know, just something small, like a bit part. He did, and she used that as the springboard to television. Of course, ” Margo added, a bitter note to her voice, “Magnolia Lane has been her big breakout.”

  “I heard that Mia was originally cast in the role of Nurse Nan, ” I said watching her reaction.

  Her blue eyes whipped around to me. “Who told you that?”

  “Uh…” I shrugged noncommitally. “Not sure. I guess I just heard it…around.”

  Margo narrowed her eyes at me, and for a second I feared I was going to get thrown out of the B-movie museum. But finally she just leaned back on her sofa with a little plastic burp. “I was the one who suggested her to the producers in the first place. She was supposed to be my supporting actress. But, being Mia, of course, she went behind my back and convinced them that she would be a better fit to play opposite Ricky.” Margo barked out a sharp laugh. “Please. I’ve had lovers half his age.”

  I refrained from commenting on Margo’s math. Ricky didn’t look a day over thirty, and if Margo had fifteen-year-old fans, I was a rocket scientist.

  “So, Mia got the role of Ashley and you got the supporting role?” I prodded.

  Margo lit her cigarette, blowing a fine stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “At least on the small screen.” She looked at me, her eyes twinkling. “Did you know that FOX picked up the film rights? There was going to be a Magnolia Lane movie, starring yours truly.”

  My heart leaped into my throat and my internal TV junkie did a happy squeal. “Really? Ohmigod—too cool!”

  Margo smiled smugly. “Oh, yeah. ‘Cool, ’ all right. Even coole
r? I was the executive producer. The movie was not only going to be my return to film, but also my revenge on that little tramp.” She took another long drag. “I was writing Mia out of the film.”

  “Writing her out?” I asked. “But isn’t she the star of the show?”

  Uh-oh. The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Margo froze, cigarette halfway to her lips, and gave me a death look.

  “There are other inhabitants of Magnolia Lane, you know, ” she barked out. “Tina Rey and the electrician were the hot item in the ratings last season. And my lines have doubled since Blake went into that coma.”

  “Right. Of course. Sorry.” Though I personally couldn’t imagine a Magnolia Lane without Mia. I mean, Blake in a coma and Nurse Nan hovering over him a story did not make. Where was the drama in that?

  “Anyway, ” she went on, “that was going to be my revenge on the backstabbing bitch.”

  “Was?” I asked, honing in on the word. “Did something change?”

  Margo stood up, slashed her cigarette in the air. “Mia found out about film and pitched a royal fit! Suddenly the whole project’s on hold. And now with the letters and these murders, backers are talking about pulling out altogether. All because of that overrated prima donna.”

  I waited while Margo took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling vigorously before she sank down into the love seat opposite me, the plastic casing crackling beneath her frame. “I swear to God, if that wacko writing the letters offs Mia next, I’ll die a happy woman.”

  I watched Margo’s nostrils flare in and out—thanks to the aggressive face-lift, the only part of her face that held any expression. The bad blood between the two actresses ran deep; that much was clear. Deep enough for Margo to kill two innocent victims just to get to Mia? I wasn’t sure. But if the treasure trove of artifacts filling her home was any indication, Margo took her films seriously. Mia’s sabotaging her comeback to the big screen just might be enough to put Margo over the edge.

  I was about to ask Margo how well she had known Veronika when the maid came into the room again.

  “Excuse me, miss, ” she said softly, addressing me.

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “There’s a woman out front. She told me to say”—the maid blushed—“to get your ‘fanny’ outside. She’s on the night shift tonight and if you don’t hurry the”—she paused again—“ ‘heck’ up she’ll take off without you.”

  Any other time, I would have sent a return message that Porn Star Barbie could go to “heck.” But unfortunately she was my only ride.

  I rose, painfully peeling my exposed thighs off the plastic couch, and thanked Margo for seeing me.

  “Anytime, honey, ” she said, blowing smoke out through her nostrils. “My door is always open for a bitch session about Mia.”

  Jasmine drove through the evening traffic back toward West Hills, having composed herself enough by now that instead of her seeming freaked, the set of her bony jaw just made her look pissed off. She was silent, no doubt using all her brainpower to mentally add up how much it was going to cost to have her baby fixed. I took the opportunity to check my voice mail. Just one message. I keyed in my PIN number and got an earful of Ramirez’s growl.

  “I’m at your place, Maddie. I couldn’t help noticing that neither you nor my officer is here. Where the hell are you, Maddie?” he asked, his voice growing louder with each word. “I got a call about a woman shooting at a blonde in a McDonald’s parking lot. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Then the slam of his receiver hanging up echoed through my ears as the message clicked over.

  Needless to say, I didn’t call him back.

  I looked out the window. The sky was turning dusky pink and blue as the sun sank behind the hills. It was clear that I couldn’t go home tonight without risking a) a pissed-off cop with a pair of handcuffs, or b) a pissed-off crack head with a gun. Ditto Ramirez’s place. Despite his invitation this morning, I had a feeling he wouldn’t be all smiles and sunshine at seeing me right now.

  I hit speed dial and called Dana’s number.

  No answer on her cell, and Daisy Duke informed me that she hadn’t been home all day. Great.

  I looked across the console at Jasmine. If I bribed her with a front-page mention, I could probably spend the night in her den of iniquity, but the idea of strangers touching their tab A while watching me sleep was creepier than a stuffed ferret.

  Which left me with only one place to go.

  I bit my lip.

  “Hey, Jasmine, do you think you could drop me off someplace?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh and looked at her dash clock. “If it’s on the way. Where?”

  I took a deep breath, hoping the slime didn’t rub off as I gave Jasmine Felix’s address in the Hollywood Hills.

  Chapter 17

  The sun was long gone by the time we climbed the last ridge to Felix’s monument to modern architecture, the sky a deep blue by now, almost dark enough to see stars if the ever-present sheen of city lights didn’t blind them out. The night air had chilled considerably, and Jasmine and I were doing a teeth-chattering duet as wind whipped through her nonexistent windows.

  “I swear I’ll pay for these, ” I stammered, feeling my lips turn blue.

  “Damn straight you will! Are we almost there?”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say Jasmine was eager to get rid of me.

  “A couple more turns, ” I responded.

  Jasmine mumbled something under her breath (I caught the words blonde and pain in the ass) and cranked the wheel to the right as she wound farther upward. Finally the trees broke, and Felix’s glass structure came into view.

  “Wow, ” Jasmine said. “Who is this guy? And more important, what does he like to watch? I could retire on a perv this rich.”

  I ignored her comment, as, at the moment, the important question on my mind was, would he put up a slightly snarky shoe designer on the run from the cops for a night?

  “You can let me out here, ” I said as she pulled into the drive.

  Jasmine shot me a look and, for a second I could see her desire to meet Mr. Megabucks warring with her desire to be Maddie-free. For a second. Personally, I think it was the shot-out windows that put her over the edge.

  “Yeah, fine. And don’t think I won’t send you the bill for the car!” she reminded me as I grabbed my purse and got out. I scarcely had the passenger door shut again before she had the Miata in reverse, peeling out of the drive and back down the hill.

  I climbed the steps to Felix’s front door, crossing my fingers he was home. I gave a sharp rap and waited two beats while footsteps approached from inside.

  Felix opened the door and stared at me.

  “Maddie?”

  I gave him a one-finger wave. “Hi. So, um, I need another favor.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Lovely to see you, too. What, me? I’m just fine, thanks for asking, love.”

  If I’d had any energy left in me, I might have felt bad. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I hate getting shot at.”

  At the word shot Felix’s face immediately lost its mocking hint, his eyebrows drawing together in a tight line. “Again? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. She’s got terrible aim. Can I come in?”

  Felix stepped back. “Of course. I was just making some cappuccino.” He gave me a quick (sort of) up-and-down. “You look like you could use one.”

  He motioned for me to follow him as he led the way down a hallway and into a kitchen massive enough to make Rachael Ray jealous. He proceeded to flip on a cappuccino machine the size of a Buick and pull two coffee mugs down as I sat at the granite counter and relayed to him the entire events of the day, starting with his gun getting confiscated (to which he asked whether I knew how much that thing had cost him—cheapskate) and ending with the Mickey D’s shootout and my conversation with Margo. By the time I was finished, we were both downing steaming mugs of cappuccino, and Felix’s
forehead was permanently etched in a frown. No doubt from trying to take mental notes on every detail for the Informer’s headline tomorrow: Blonde Fugitive Spotted Eating Massive Amounts of Apple Pie While Getting Shot At. By Bigfoot. (Hey, they were the Informer. They took a little artistic license with their facts.)

  “You think Margo did it?”

  I rested my chin in both hands. “Maybe. I don’t know. But with Mia getting another note today, it sounds like whoever it is isn’t satisfied yet. I mean, if Veronika was a mistake, and Dusty was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe whoever is after Mia will try again.”

  “Personally, I’d say it sounds like she deserves it. Is there anyone she hasn’t screwed?”

  I shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “So, what’s our next move, Miss Marple?”

  “Who?”

  He shot me a lopsided grin. “Never mind.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but my next move is sleep. Which reminds me…” I trailed off, biting my lip. “I was kind of hoping that maybe I could stay here tonight?”

  Felix raised one eloquent eyebrow at me.

  But I didn’t give him a chance to say no, jumping right into the speech I’d mentally practiced on the way here. “See, my place isn’t safe, what with Isabel running around, and it’s still kind of trashed, and I can’t go to Ramirez’s because, even forgetting the fact that I don’t have a key, he left a really pissed-off message about escaping the babysitter, and he probably wouldn’t open the door for me anyway, and Dana’s not home, probably at SA, and Jasmine has cameras all over the ceiling, and, well, you were my last hope.”

  “It’s always lovely to know I’m at the bottom of your list, Maddie.”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “Please?” I pleaded, doing my best pathetic voice. Which, considering the day I’d had, wasn’t too hard to fake.

  He paused, his face unreadable. Then finally he said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Come on. I’m sorry about the whole Deveroux-is-gay story. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Please, please, pretty please?”